


Caricature of Intimacy

by gatty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:11:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatty/pseuds/gatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dictionary of wrong tacks and failed attempts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caricature of Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HSO bonus round 2b Mobius Double Reach Around FST.

Rose traces the sharp line of his cheek bone with her finger tips. He is chiaroscuro angles and planes in the darkened motel rooms. His cheek, the hollow of his eye are momentarily illuminated by the flashing light of a police car passing outside. The cheap blankets are tangled around her thighs, coarse against her skin. She can feel his breath against the inside of her wrist, warm and fluttering like her pulse. Dave presses his lips to her skin and her breath leaves her in a shuddering sigh. She slides close to him, arm wrapping around his neck. Her mouth moves against his ear, shaping the sounds of her confession as his fingers mark out the dips and hollows of her spine.

 

*

 

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at the way his hair, growing too long, has begun to curl over his collar. Doesn’t notice the red mark his sunglasses leave on the bridge of his nose. He touches his fingers to her wrist as they leave the diner, lagging behind their friends, and she snatches her hand away, jolts sideways like she’s been shocked. He barges past her, smacking the door wide open and making the bell hanging above jump and dance on it’s spring. She walks behind, not looking at the hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his gestures as he argues with John about _Deep Impact_.

 

*

 

She writes five pages in her journal about sharp angled pale boys wielding swords and disappearing into the mists of obscurity before she tears out the pages and burns them in the bathroom sink. She is ignoring him on pesterchum, not that he’s tried to speak to her since the diner. She has a chat window open, and watches him sign in and out without ever coming across the right words. She has written him so very many words, cutting words, sweet ones, harsh ones, exasperated ones, a dictionary of wrong tacks and failed attempts. She shuts down her laptop and knits socks until her wrists ache.

 

*

 

She doesn’t find them, the words. She finds that her mouth is dry, her lips chapped and moving clumsily. On her bed, they sit cross-legged opposite each other, knees touching. He is quiet, she can see the tension of it in his hands. They pick at his jeans, fingers drumming on his thighs. He is quiet for her, lets silence pass between them on her request. She takes his hand, takes his fingers and aligns them with hers. They press palm to palm in silent kiss, and for a moment, it is more than words.


End file.
